


Trans Bruce Wayne Drabbles

by SteamShip



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Best Friends, Bisexual Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Coming Out, Confusion, Embarrassment, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Humor, Hurt Bruce Wayne, Jim is a little confused but he got the spirit, M/M, Menstruation, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Morning Wood, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Supportive Clark Kent, Trans Bruce Wayne, Trans Male Character, Trans character written by trans author
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29047647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteamShip/pseuds/SteamShip
Summary: I'm obsessed with this tag and figured it needed more fics. Here're my drabbles!
Relationships: Clark Kent & Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne if you squint, Jim Gordon & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 8
Kudos: 62





	1. You're What?

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter hell yeah! This is my first ever posted fic so please be soft w/ me. Concrit is accepted and absorbed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce comes out to Clark in a way he wasn't expecting. Teasing ensues.

It had been a long time since Bruce had had to come out to anyone. As transgender or bisexual. Coming home from Ra’s Al Ghul and the League of Shadows had been emotional, yes, but he knew Alfred had at least suspected before. Adopting Dick was easy, and Alfred had told him the ‘secret’ some years in. Jason had just went “cool” and went back to watching whatever shitty detective show passed as quality television nowadays, and Tim had gone into research-mode before it was brought up again. Damian knew both his and his mother’s surgical statuses. 

So, of course, Bruce was... confused, to say the least, when Clark mentioned how much he hated certain aspects of having a penis. Particularly morning wood. 

“You’d think this was a conversation for Jordan and not me,” he grumbled, pouring a coffee from the Watchtower’s machine. Clark blinked at him owlishly before regaining his previous bluster.

“Gross, Bruce. I know Hal is, like, more open about that stuff but he’s not like... us, you know? Best friends?” Bruce rolled his eyes, and Clark continued, “Besides, why wouldn’t you be right for this conversation. I’ve known you for, what, a decade now? and you don’t use words you don’t mean. So what’s up?”

That gave him a pause. He had grown comfortable in his body even without bottom surgery (nothing was quite up to his standards yet) and had, honest to god, forgotten that some people didn’t know. He had thought it a given. After all (and Clark had said it himself) they’d known each other for ten years.

“Clark,” he started, cautiously. He reached up to pull the cowl off of his face, taking a long sip of his coffee. “You have X-rayed me before, yes?”

Clark raised a brow. “Uh, yeah, Bruce, why? You’re kind of freaking me out here.” Bruce took a deep, calming breath in through his nose.

“And, in those times of X-raying me, you have never noticed anything... different about my reproductive system?” Clark started to blush, now, and Bruce would have found it amusing if not for the wildly thrumming nervousness that beat against his chest.

“No, Bruce, I’m usually too busy trying to figure out if you’re dead! Stop being so gosh darn cryptic for once in your life and ***tell me what you mean***.”

Bruce sighed.

“Clark, I’m transgender.”

Superman blinked slowly, and Bruce was reminded of a cat. It was endearing.

“You’re what?” Oh, now Bruce was starting to enjoy it. Clark looked like he was about to burst, though Bruce wasn’t at all sure what from. He let a smirk slide across his lips, and his eyebrows quirked devilishly downwards.

“When I was born, I had a vagina. And I was raised as a girl. But I have, since then, corrected those flaws.” He spoke slowly, as if to a child, and he could see Clark starting to get frustrated; in part from the condescension and in part from being caught off guard.

“N-no I got that. I know what trans people are, Bruce, Jesus, you don’t have to mansplain to me. I just... how?”

Bruce rolled his eyes good naturedly and strolled over to the couch where Clark was lounging. He balanced his elbows on the back and leaned forward, sarcasm dripping from his tongue as he said, “You see when two people love each other very much...”

“Okay! Okay, okay, I get it. I’m... just... how did I not know?” Boyscout. Never learns. Bruce could tell he was beating himself up over it- likely lamenting all the times Bruce might have needed him but was too scared to come out, or times when he accidentally made him uncomfortable (there were none) or...

“Relax, Metropolis. It’s not like I’m very public about it.” This seemed to assuage his fears a bit, and he slumped in his seat. “Man. What else don’t I know? Are you secretly gay too?”

Oh, shit.


	2. Sadly, sadly, the sun rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce deals with the Batsuit and its design. He and Clark have a talk. All is good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: A trans character experiences chest dysphoria.

Water trickled down the stalactites on the cave’s ceiling, bats shuffling quietly overhead. The steady drip, drip, drip was an almost judging drone as Bruce stared at himself in a mirror. It was an old antique thing, with varnished edges and a gentle sheen to it. Soft blue light glowed about the room, the only lighting available; the only lighting needed.

The Batsuit was a beautiful monster, refined and powerful in the way only machines could be. The armor didn’t hug his body too tightly and it was well ventilated in all the right places. Truly a masterful creation. But, Bruce lamented internally, he wished the top wasn’t so accentuated.

Perhaps it was his own fault for placing the bat insignia there. It wasn’t necessary, obviously, and Bruce took pride in his pragmatism. It had been a moment of selfishness, he supposed. The want to brand himself was nothing more than aesthetic desire and he was sure that the clown in Metropolis had something to do with it. But that was beside the point.

The point being his chest. 

Or, coincidentally, the lack thereof.

Wearing a binder in the suit was impractical, to say the least. It constricted his breathing and put a toll on his already battered ribs. No, he wasn’t super like that other hero, so he had to be more careful. And, besides, he couldn’t take the time off in order to get top surgery. No matter how much he might want to. So, for now, no binding in the Batsuit.

None of his rogues (god, he hated that he had rogues at this point) knew he was trans. Nobody knew he was trans. There was no need to suspect and no need to question. Not like when he was Bruce Wayne. God, why was being Batman so much easier? Maybe he needed a therapist.

No, he was getting distracted.

He drug his eyes down the contours of his chest, curling his lip in a half-snarl at the perceived softness. He knew, logically, that it was comprised of sharp lines. Jagged, cutting things made to simulate the hyper-masculine power fantasy he had going on. Nothing soft about them. But he… he just… 

He wished, for a moment, that he hadn’t told Alfred to go to bed without him. He wanted to hug the man - his father - tight and have him whisper comforting nothings into his ear. For him to lie, because surely that was what he was doing.

He sighed and pinched his nose. This was solving nothing. Another night.

He put the mirror away.

-

It had been years, since then. 

He still didn’t bind in the Batsuit; that was dangerous. He still hadn’t found time to get top surgery (between all his Robins and his children dying he didn’t quite have any spare months to throw around like that). And he still had that damned mirror. 

It was still shiny, in the way that old things were. He hadn’t touched it since that night… there had never been time. He never really had time, did he? That’s why he’d never had surgery. It’s why, every morning, he had to dab concealer under his eyes to hide the dark-purple bags beneath them.

But, shockingly, he had time tonight. And so he stood in front of the mirror in full Batman garb (sans cowl) and stared. It was while he was staring that an alarm went off.

It was soft, an almost bass-like sound. An actual recording of Clark’s heartbeat. He could feel the tension bleeding from his body at the sound, though he would never tell Clark that. The gentle sound of a flapping cape could be heard as Superman drifted into the cave through the specially built skylight, created for all flying members of the Justice League. No one had to know that Superman used it the most.

Just as Bruce was about to turn the sound off with a button on the wrist of his gauntlet the sounds turned loud. Rather than the comforting sound of his best friend’s (was that what he was calling Superman now?) heartbeat it was rather… lewd? Almost moan-like… 

He slammed his fist against the button, scowling as Clark landed behind him with a nervous smile. A certain Hood was going to get a stern talking to. And maybe a suspension from Alfred’s cookies. 

“Superman,” Bruce growled tersely, not turning to greet the man himself. He kept his eyes on the mirror, adjusting the gauntlet that he was pretty sure was broken now. Damn.

“Bruce!” Superman chirped, trying his best to look casual. The tips of his ears were red and he coughed into a fist, floating over to where Bruce was standing. “What are you doing?” 

His scowl deepened further. “No names in uniform,” he grumbled, more out of habit than anything else. He could see the soft tilt of Clark’s head, a quirk he had developed to show he was listening. It was… sweet. Though Bruce would never say it. 

Ignoring him, Clark continued, “Are you working on a case? Is this mirror haunted?” Bruce curled his nose in disdain and swiped a gloved hand across his face. “No, Superman, I am not.” He didn’t even dignify the other question with a response. Supes only looked more confused, head tilting further.

“Okay…” he said slowly, finally touching down just behind Bruce. “Then what are you doing?” 

This was it. Bruce Wayne was out as trans, and Clark knew who he was, but they had never had a conversation about it. Bruce was a man and Clark knew he was a man and that had been that. But this… this was a moment of insecurity. Of vulnerability; something Clark had shared with him, but never he with Clark. And, perhaps, he owed it to the man at this point.

“I’m considering remodelling the Batsuit,” he murmured, one hand reaching up to trace his pec. He appeared to be the peak of masculinity- chiselled jaw with a touch of stubble, a defined lower lip, and muscles of iron. Nothing betrayed femininity and he was sure that it was all in his head but… but…

“It hurts.” Clark’s eyebrows met his hairline, and he looked ready to cry. He always did when he thought Bruce was hurt, and Bruce mirrored the sentiment. He brushed the man’s shoulder with his own, however, in an attempt of comfort. 

“Not… not physically. Mentally.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “The chest it’s… bad,” he finished lamely, his eyes falling to the cave floor. He didn’t expect Clark to understand (how could he?) but he at least wanted to try and tell him. 

“Hurts how?” Bruce didn’t lift his gaze, but he was sure that Clark had that pleading look in his eyes, the one he got when Bruce was being particularly repressed. The Dark Knight took a deep breath and scuffed his feet. 

“Not flat enough.”

If Bruce had been looking, he would have seen Clark’s face soften. His hand came to rest on Bruce’s shoulder, and he shook him a bit. 

“Alright, turn.” Superman floated and swivelled on his axis, facing to their shared right. He fixed his posture into the normal Superman stance; he had fallen into something between that and Clark Kent… simply Clark. Bruce copied, hunching his shoulders to simulate a larger frame. His cape hissed against the ground, falling around him like an inky tide.

“There, see?” Clark pointed at their chests, his own much larger. Bruce, despite not binding, had always had a small chest and it was only his perception that gave him such pain. But even with this objective comparison he gave a miserable huff. Clark looked crestfallen.

“I understand if you still want to change it. M… maybe I can take over the suit, for a while, and you can get surgery.” 

Bruce’s head snapped up at that, eyes narrowed. His mind scanned the statement, looking for holes, for places where Clark could take advantage. He found none. 

“J’onn could shapeshift to play Batman as well. And I’m sure Dick wouldn’t mind taking a vacation to come see you too.”

It was only when tears streamed down his cheeks that Bruce realised he was crying. Clark softly wiped them away and pressed his nose to Bruce’s forehead as he floated a few inches off the ground. It was brotherly, despite Bruce being the older of the pair. It reminded him of his parents and of love and he cried. Maybe he didn’t have to sacrifice so much. He had people to pick up the slack.

“Okay,” he said, voice cracking a bit as he looked up at Clark. “Okay. I’ll ask Leslie and I’ll let the boys know and I’ll see about getting the media involved, and…” 

Clark laughed and hugged him, nose buried in the crook of his neck. “You’re so silly, Bruce. I love you. I’m glad you’re doing this.”

And he cried.


	3. The American Justice System

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim Gordon finds out Bruce's identity through a series of Unfortunate Events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: 
> 
> Trans man has his period, momentary accidental misgendering of a trans male character, dysphoria, detailed description of a trans man having his period.

The first thing Bruce noticed upon waking up was the sharp stabbing pain that raged just between his legs. His stomach was numb from the cold and he could no longer feel his fingers and he was almost certain his ribs were broken. A low curse left his frozen lips as he struggled to stand up, legs wobbling uncertainty.

He wasn’t all that sure how he had gotten into that situation in the first place, though he supposed it didn’t matter considering the circumstances. His mask was still in place and he didn’t remember being in a fight, which was more than he could normally ask for. He’d likely passed out mid-swing. All things considered, there were worse ways to wake up in an alley.

The scorching stickiness between his legs was in sharp contrast to the cold state of the rest of his body, heat catching and dripping down his inner thighs. He shivered in a way unrelated to the biting cold and bit back a pitiful moan. He’d need to get a new pad. 

He reached for an absent grapple gun, eyes narrowing as he noticed it was missing. He must have dropped it. He’d paused for a moment, glancing around for it, when suddenly a gross stretching sensation overtook him and he could feel blood seeping through his body armour. His body wracked in a dry sob and he began to stumble towards the closest safe haven he knew of.

-

Gordon’s home held a gentle sort of warmth, the glow of lights visible even from the streets. Bruce dropped precariously into an adjacent alleyway, hands clutching at damp, painted brick with numbed fingers. He banged a fist against startlingly clean glass, the resounding thump making him jump in his half-mad stupor. He could hear the faint cocking of a gun and barely had the mind to duck as a shot was blasted between the ears of his cowl. Gordon's head peeked just out the window, a look of confusion and concern shown on his face.

“Batman?” He called, looking down at the man, who was, as of now, curled in upon himself in what was clearly pain. “A-are you okay?!”

Bruce grunted in response, slowly heaving himself up and through the jagged glass of the broken window, managing to get naught a scratch on him. Gordon was there to catch his tired body as he landed on the floor, steadying the heavier set man.

“Batman? Has there been a breakout in Arkham? Did you get more intel on the Scarecrow? Talk to me!” Bruce fought the urge to clamp his hands over his ears, instead opting to simply clench his jaw and try to formulate words and sentences. Gordon was patting him down, searching for wounds or where the blood dripping onto his floor might have come from. 

“Your wife,” Bruce managed to choke out, causing a flare of panic to light in Gordon’s eyes. Bruce barely managed a wince in response- not the most tactful way he might have worded it. “She has.. sanitary products, yes?”

Now the Commissioner's brow furrowed, but he nodded. “You… need them?”

Bruce felt like a child again, confronted by this man who was nearly Alfred’s age. It took all he could to stop himself from shuffling his feet and smearing the blood on the floor. “Yes. Can I use your bathroom?” 

Gordon looked confused out of his mind, nodding nonetheless. “I, I mean of course, it’s down the hall to your left. My wife’s pads should be next to the toilet.” He couldn’t begin to fathom why Batman needed pads. Maybe for a criminal he had caught? Not that it was his place to know or ask- this was clearly a favor and not a business meeting. And, frankly, Jim was willing to take any closeness with this man that he could. He was simply fascinating.

Bruce nodded curtly, taking long strides towards the restroom. He had already known where it was- of course he did, he had done a search of Gordon’s home before even speaking to him. The continued stabbing sensation that roiled in his belly was more than enough to render him more mute than usual, however, and he ignored Gordon’s saddened look at the blood on his floor as he set about unclasping his uniform.

It was easy enough to unclip the codpiece, his extra leg armour falling with it. They landed with a dense thunk, Bruce wincing at the unneeded noise. He rolled down his chainmail leggings and thermal underwear regardless, cringing at their blood soaked state. The pad he had half heartedly put into his briefs had long since been demolished, barely recognisable save for the brighter crimson that the previously white material held in contrast to the black he normally wore. With one hand he flicked open his utility belt, neatly wrapping the object up and placing it, blood and all, back into his chamber. He hadn’t had the foresight to bring another pad— where would he have changed it regardless? There weren’t many public restrooms that Batman could be caught in, much less a Batman on his period. He loathed to think of himself in the women’s restroom, but somehow feared being caught in the mens’ even more. 

After wiping his bloodied gauntlets off on some toilet paper, he made quick work of Mrs. Gordon’s pads, not even bothering to check if they’d fit. He only needed them to last until he got home- it was obvious he wasn’t in any place to finish patrol and taking painkillers was dangerous in his line of work. One missed laceration could spell the end of all his hard work. 

And he couldn’t have that.

-

In the other room, Gordon’s mind was running through each and every detail of the night. He wasn’t only curious about the Batman (who wouldn’t be?) but also worried about the man he considered a tentative friend or, at the very least, an ally. They had walked the careful precipice of criminal and vigilante together, two men caught up in a cause that neither had begun. But, all the same, they were brothers. A brother in need was a brother indeed, or something.

Gordon supposed that a criminal or a vigilante or any number of individuals may need those menstrual products. He wasn’t so caught within his bubble that he was unaware of the struggle to attain such simple needs. But, alas, the sudden thunk that resounded from the other room was enough to make him reconsider his options. 

His detective’s mind spirinted through conclusions and leads that stopped short, each small piece of evidence piling into a neat little stack that he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.

There were only so many rich women.

Gordon stopped, backtracking. Batman would have branded himself differently had that been the case. Wouldn't he? Gordon couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t sure of anything, right now.

Then, suddenly, the realisation.

There were only so many rich, trans, men.

Only one that he knew of, actually. And, coincidentally, one with a past dark enough and vague enough to warrant such extreme actions as Batman. 

Gordon looked down at the blood on the floor and went to get some paper towels.

-

Bruce was achingly tired, with his hands shaking from blood loss and adrenaline. He wondered if he had forgotten his shot again, if that was what caused this to happen. Or, perhaps, his body was still learning to understand this medication, the medication he only had access to upon his return. Not that the wondering prevented his current situation.

He had been sitting in the restroom for far too long already, Gordon’s puttering about quieting down to just the clacking of his keyboard, likely chasing leads on his identity. Bruce wasn’t stupid; he knew he was stalling. Prolonging the inevitable, extending his suffering.

His stomach hurt.

It was easy enough to stand, to go through the motions. Wash his gloves of the blood, certain that the heavy, lingering scent still remained on his suit. He clicked his codpiece and armour back on, and simply stood in front of the door. One hand on the handle.

He could leave, now, he supposed. The window behind him opened and was large enough for him to squeeze through. Probably a security failing on Gordon’s part, Bruce thought suddenly, irrationally. He could leave.

Instead he took a steeling breath and stepped back into the living room, eyes meeting Jim’s from where the man sat on his couch. An understanding was reached between them.

“Look, Batman, it’s really not my place-“ Jim started up, eyes falling back to his laptop in an attempt to avoid awkwardness. Bruce interrupted him, words thick in his throat. 

“I am a man.” Gordon nodded hastily, nervousness leaking from every fibre of his being. “Right, yes, of course. I… I know who you are.” 

Bruce tipped his cowled head to the side, considering. “I know.”

Jim’s brow met his hairline and he pursed his lips. “You do?” 

A nod, and Jim let out a shaky sigh. “Of course. You’re the Batman.” A slow smirk now, and Bruce harrumphed in acquiescence, nodding. Gordon almost crumpled in relief, the miniscule comfort more than he had received within their whole year of coalition. “Yeah, well, at least this time it’s you needing my help, eh?” 

Bruce didn’t quite smile but he didn’t quite frown, and, frankly, Jim counted that as a win. 

“Goodnight, Commissioner.” 

Jim closed his eyes.

“Goodnight, Batman.”

When he opened them, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's bogus.
> 
> I'm thinking of writing an epilogue for this, or something? Like a sequel, maybe. I have a lot of fics planned for this, and I write them at my leisure. 
> 
> What I got planned so far includes but is not limited to:  
> -Bruce coming out to all the members of the Batfam  
> -Bruce coming out to Alfred when he's very young  
> -Young Bruce deals with intense dysphoria and the depression and mania that comes with it  
> -Bruce (and the rest of the league) get hit with a de-aging spell. Bruce isn't out to the league so they're like "wtf" when a young girl appears  
> -Bruce *has* to crossdress for one reason or another. Angst ensues.
> 
> Please note that I am a trans man and a lot of these are vent pieces! Only read things you are comfortable with. Stay safe out there.
> 
> Kudos and comments keep me smiling.


End file.
